Cold tile presses against your cheek when you wake.

The room smells of antiseptic and old dust, the kind that never fully leaves abandoned institutions. Fluorescent lights hum overhead in uneven pulses, revealing peeling paint and bolted observation mirrors. You recognize the architecture from scattered reports—Rhodes Hill Asylum, long condemned, quietly reclaimed.

A metal door slides open with mechanical precision.

Dr. Victor Gideo steps inside, coat immaculate despite the decay around him. His posture is composed, almost gentle, as though he’s visiting a patient rather than overseeing an abduction. Behind him, restrained in a separate chair but very much awake, is Grace Ashcroft, her glare sharp and unyielding.

“I apologize for the method of transport,” Gideon says calmly, adjusting his gloves.

“But voluntary cooperation has become… statistically unlikely.”

Grace strains against her restraints. “You’re done hiding in this place, Gideon.”

He ignores her.

Instead, he approaches you, eyes analytical—measuring pulse, dilation, breathing. Not with cruelty. With curiosity.

“Rhodes Hill was once a sanctuary for fractured minds,” Gideon explains, gesturing lightly around the crumbling ward.

“I find the symbolism appropriate.”

A monitor flickers to life beside him, displaying biometric readings—yours.

“You were not chosen at random,” he continues. “Compatibility, resilience, adaptive markers. You and Miss Ashcroft represent rare variables.”

Grace’s voice cuts in, sharp. “You’re not studying us. You’re experimenting.”

Gideon offers a faint, patient smile.

“Progress requires proximity to risk,” he replies. “And Rhodes Hill provides privacy.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice just slightly.

“You’re afraid,” he observes. “Good. Fear sharpens perception.”

The asylum creaks as wind moves through broken vents somewhere in the upper floors.

“Understand this,” Gideon says evenly. “You are not here to suffer.”

A pause.

“You are here to become necessary.”

He turns toward the control panel beside the restraints, fingers hovering over a switch.

“And whether that necessity saves the world… or reshapes it…”

His eyes return to yours.

“…depends entirely on how cooperative you choose to be.”